


The Curves of Your Lips Rewrite History

by BluebeardsWife



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genre Twist, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder Mystery, POV Alternating, genre mashup, several side pairings, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12772899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluebeardsWife/pseuds/BluebeardsWife
Summary: Hard-boiled detective Isak Valtersen is drunk, broke, and down on his luck when rich pretty-boy Even Bech Næsheim walks into his office. Will the search for his missing wife help Isak get back on his feet? Or is Even an "homme fatale" who is trying to frame Isak for her murder?





	1. The Case (Isak POV)

**Author's Note:**

> This is vaguely based in a film-noir-style 1950s US, and all the characters are ten or so years older than on the show. The chapters will be around 1k words each, mostly alternating between Isak and Even's POV. I am maintaining some continuity in terms of character personalities, but it's a very different setting, so don't expect them to be exactly the same. Comments keep me going, so please let me know if you enjoy it and what parts you like best! Thanks for reading!
> 
> If anyone is interested, I've been using a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/secretidentitywoman/hard-boiled-romcom-mood/) to help me visualize this fic as I write it, so feel free to look at it or follow it if you'd like!

  
I'm searching for deliverance at the bottom of a cheap bottle of scotch the night he turns my life upside down. I've reached rock bottom, and, well, there’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing you can’t possibly sink any lower... Except when you do.

"Mr. Valtersen," he waltzes right in without knocking and shuts the door behind him, almost making me spill the last of my drink. I sense trouble the moment that fop sets foot in my office, his coat dripping rain, eyes blazing at me in feigned desperation.

_That’s a firm no._

"You're a private eye, isn’t that so?" he looks around the rattrap I call an office with a small smirk and continues. "That's what it says on your door anyway. And in the telephone book... ” he turns to face me abruptly. “I need one of you. I’ve heard good things.”

I finally get a decent look at him when he slumps into the chair across from me uninvited. The street lamp outside lets just enough light through the blinds to form narrow stripes across his round face. I stopped turning on the light months ago - I already know where I am. Besides, most of my clients prefer to stay in shadows.

He looks about as intimidating as a giraffe in a tuxedo, all scrawny limbs and sharp angles, and maybe it's just because I've been living on whiskey and cigarettes, but something about him still unnerves me. In my line of work, you learn fast not to trust people, and his type is exactly the reason why. With his knees spread wide and a lean arm draped over the back of the chair, he commands the room. I take my feet off the table and sit up to face him. It might as well be his office right now. And still, he somehow manages to look the part of damsel in distress.

"My wife’s gone missing," he says flatly.

“Call the coppers,” I suggest, and put a cigarette between my lips.

“Not an option.”

I light a match, and a flash of orange illuminates the stranger's amber hair. Like everything about him, it looks just the right amount of disheveled to create the illusion of distress without loss of control. I know better than to buy it. His delicate hands and finely tailored suit are a dead giveaway. A guy that well-dressed has no business in this part of town, much less my office.

“What do you want _me_ to do about it?” I ask.

I take a drag of my cigarette and remember it’s my last as the tangy smoke fills my lungs. It’s surprising how little a man needs to get by. Sleeping in your office is one thing, but not being able to scrounge up two bits for a deck of Luckies? This is what rock bottom looks like.

“I need you to find her before the press or the police realize she’s gone,” he sighs, and I catch a glimpse of genuine fear in his eyes. Whatever he’s gotten himself into, it’s not worth the trouble.

"I don't do murder cases anymore,” I put my feet back on the table. “ And besides, my load's full.” A lie - I haven’t had a paying case in weeks.

“Murder?” His eyes grow wide and oh-so-innocent. “Who said anything about murder?”

It's the eyes that get me. Stupidly big and blue, the kind that surely work on every dame he ever sets his sights on.

“Listen mister,” I sit back up and lean in to get a better look at him. “There’s no way a rich lothario like you would come to me unless you fucked up real bad." A small twitch in his jawbone, and I know I've hit a nerve. "Now, here's the sixty-four thousand dollar question: Is the money yours or your wife’s?”

“Hers,” he says hoarsely.

“You kill her?”

“No!” he practically jumps out of the chair, and I suddenly realize how tall he is. I don’t like having to look up at someone.

He makes as if to leave, but stops mid-step, turning back. He pulls a thick wad of cash out of his pocket and holds it up, making sure I get a good look, baiting me like a hungry stray. I hate that it’s working.

“If there’s any chance she’s alive, I need to find her before the press get wind of it.” He throws the dough on the table in front of me. It's held together by a silver clip engraved with the letters EBN. It's more money than I've seen in years.

“And if she’s not…” he sounds much more composed now, confident even. “Well, I need to know before the police come knocking on my door.”

I exhale and watch the dull smoke unfurl between us. His crystalline eyes pierce right through. I take the money, run my thumb along the edges. I can't afford to say no.

“Why me?” I ask. “I’m sure there are more, uh, _reputable_ ops you could get for the job.”

He shakes his head vehemently, staring at the floor. “It’s a delicate matter. It requires… discretion.”

“You famous or something?” I ask with a tight smile. “Politician?”

"I’m uh... Even Bech Næsheim," he looks up at me as though that's supposed to mean something. His eyebrows vault up at my lack of reaction. "How about Sonja Bech Næsheim?”

Something inside me stirs at the warmth in his chuckle. Like a police siren warning me to get out while I can. “Does Sonja Magnusson at least ring a bell?" he asks.

As a matter of fact, it does, but my memory isn't exactly what it used to be, so it's more like a dull impression of a bell. I'm pretty sure I've seen the name in the rags.

Næsheim huffs incredulously and reaches right into my garbage can. He pulls out the unopened morning paper and straightens the front page with lean fingers on the desk in front of me. The photograph of a dolled up blonde takes up almost half the page. Quite the looker, I suppose. 

 

 

Underneath, in much smaller print, the article shamelessly implies that William Magnusson Sr.’s daughter, one Sonja Bech Næsheim, forged her father’s will in order to support the “unorthodox habits” of her lowlife husband. The accusation was, it seems, first made weeks ago by her brother, William Jr., whose body washed up on the beach with this morning's tide.

I'm not even done reading when another wad of cash slides across the table into my field of vision.

"There's more where that came from," Næsheim says. "Look, I'm desperate. But so are you,” he glances around the office pointedly. The place is a testament to my failures. “You’d have to be a bigger idiot than you look not to help me."

Against my better judgment, I collect the green and throw it in the desk drawer, right next to my Colt .38 Special. Once you drink and gamble away every penny you ever earned and then some, you learn to embrace shame like a dirty mistress.

"Start at the beginning," I say, and he sits back down. "When did you last see her?"

 


	2. Meet-Cute (Even POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this update a bit early (I'm aiming for weekly updates) because I know some of you are American and Thanksgiving with family can be quite an ordeal, so here's a small distraction.

You know how, when you first start drinking, you finish your cheap hooch or fancy cocktail, and you get all giddy and think, "Oh man, I'm pretty drunk, this is a hoot!" But then a few months later, you _actually_ get lit for the first time, and this time you don't think it, you _know_ it, and it's the most fun you've ever had until the world starts spinning and you want to barf but the walls are moving too fast for you to get to the toilet and you suddenly find yourself passing out on the floor? Turns out love can go a lot like that too.

I'm down on my uppers, still trying to make it on my own in the big city when I first meet Sonja in an alley behind a movie palace. Granted, it's not the most romantic of meetings, but she is a fucking vision, having clearly just stepped down from the cover of one of those ladies fashion magazines. Her blue skirt is just the right amount too tight, and the white blouse makes her glow like an angel next to the overflowing dumpster. I recognize her because she is now close enough for me to note the scent of her perfume, or maybe it’s shampoo, but either way, it was so distracting the first time I smelled it, I damn nearly failed to nick her purse when I “accidentally” slammed into her on my way out. Fresh with just a hint of lavender.

So there I am, too busy staring at her silhouette like a slack-jawed chump to remember to split, and by the time I realize she's about to scream for the Johns, it's too late. But, for some reason, she doesn't scream.

"That's a nice purse you've got there," she says instead, smiling, like it's the most normal fucking thing in the world. Like she didn't just catch a two bit crook rummaging through her handbag.

My mouth is still open, I realize and shut it with a loud click of my teeth. It's not that I'm not trying to be cool, I just can't figure out what the hell she's doing, talking to me, like we're pals.

"May I have it back?" she asks coyly.

"Huh?" A mob of thoughts chase each other in my head, but they all bottleneck at the exit.

_Y_ _ou stole her purse._  I stole _her_ purse? I can almost see her nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt and _fuck, you stole her fucking purse, what the hell are you doing, you boob_? I try to reason it out.

_Alright, be cool.Think... James Cagney. So you stole her purse. What's she gonna do about it, cry_?

"Oh…balls," is all I manage to say, still frozen in my spot. I'm thinking it’s time to flee the damn country or enlist when she _giggles_ at me.

"You're the most incompetent thief I've ever met," she laughs, flashing a row of brilliantly white, perfect teeth.

_Fucking hell, do something! Deny it. Threaten her. Something!_

"You meet a lot of thieves?" I gulp. _Small talk, Even? Really?_

"You'd be surprised," she says, sounding almost bored at the idea. "None quite as good-looking as you, though."

She lowers her gaze incrementally, all the way down to my feet, and then back up with a sigh, practically in slow motion, and  _I think she has the power to lift objects with her eyes._ I feel the heat creep up all the way to my face and pray it's too dark for her to notice the red splotches that are undoubtedly already covering my neck - my one tell that even Mikael couldn't teach me how to hide.

As the story goes, it’s not long before we’re necking in back alleys on the regular. Criminal activity gets her hot, you see, and I'm easy, what can I say. So easy, in fact, that I let her dress me up and parade me to her father as we both lie through our teeth about my past. That's how it always is with her. When she decides she wants something, she gets it. Including me. It's a trait instilled in her by her father, who always makes sure she gets her way, so, when she asks him to give me a job at his studio, he actually does. Hell, _I’m not complaining_.

It’s true that I always imagined myself as more of a Herbert Marshall in  _Trouble in Paradise_ type, and here I am instead, playing the role of the flustered geek to Sonja's Katherine Hepburn. All that's missing is the pet leopard, Baby. I don't mention this to her, though, for fear that she might, in fact, produce one.

I feel like her pet toy, but, like I said, I don't really mind. She's fun and gorgeous and does most of the talking. No one ever treated me that good, and before I know it, I'm on the hook, a goner, in love. At first I think she's stringin' me along. She could have any guy in town, why would she choose a dip like me? But for some reason she does - and how lucky am I to make it in the city so quickly? And yeah, maybe it’s not exactly that I did anything to get here, but I’m not gonna knock the easy way.

Before Sonja, I always wondered why all the romance flicks end with the kiss or the wedding. And then I married her (or, I suppose, it would be more accurate to say that she married me). Turns out that’s when the musical turns to horror. All the things Sonja liked about me, all the things that made me different than the men she met at school or at her father’s parties, those are things she asks me to change. It happens slowly at first, gently even, like she’s teaching me how to fit in, and it’s just to please her dad, she still loves me as I am. But a few years down the road, I find myself with manicured hands, wearing vests and suits and dress socks, learning how to contain my laughter, how to lie politely, until one day I’m arranging secret meetings with old friends that somehow end up with plotted murder.

I suppose every story has a beginning and an end. Even love.


	3. The Body (Isak POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, I've been using a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/secretidentitywoman/hard-boiled-romcom-mood/) to help me visualize this fic as I write it, so feel free to look at it or follow it if you'd like!  
> 

The city is already bustling with people by the time I get myself cleaned up and head out. I detest mornings. The streets always look like they’ve been left out all night, and the people just walk all over them. Maybe it’s the people I hate. Everyone I pass has something to sell or somewhere important to be. And not one of them gives a damn about anyone else.

I walk by a newsie and try to drown out the headlines he’s belting out. Around the corner, the pungent stench of burning meat makes my eyes water. For a moment I think I’m going to be sick, but then I finally reach the cool interior of the hospital. I wait by the restricted hallway until the doors burst open. Two nurses, like death’s girl scouts, wheel out a gurney with nothing but a white sheet to cover the mass underneath. I recoil slightly, a reflex, then slip through the open doors. It’s not fear that makes my heart race. It’s disgust. I’ve seen enough corpses to last me a lifetime, they bear no resemblance to their living counterparts. Not that I like those any better. At least dead men don’t talk.

The hallway to the mortuary is comforting. Dark, cool, quiet.

> _Well,_
> 
> _since_
> 
> _my baby_
> 
> _left me,_
> 
> _I found a new place to dwell_

Well, maybe not that quiet since the arrival of Dr. Skrulle.

> _Down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel_

This is not singing but howling, and it’s all the rage, makes people wanna fuck like animals. Who can blame them. I need only follow the sound to find the doctor, swinging her scrawny hips as she scribbles frantically on her notepad.

> _Well I get so lonely, baby, I get so lonely, I get so lonely I could die_

“So they finally let you have a radio in here,” I say at the door as I open my brand new pack of smokes. “Damn mistake if you ask me.”

Skrulle swings around, wide-eyed, and grins at me. No one should be this happy this early in the morning, especially surrounded by corpses. She turns the volume knob, and I can finally hear myself think.

“Isak Valtersen,” she beams. I’ve grown accustomed to this greeting. Just my name, my full name, stated like a fact.

She grips her notepad to her chest and looks at me, still smiling. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I didn’t speak first, but truth is, I’m afraid to find out. So, as usual, I start.

“You’re in charge of the Magnusson case,” I say.

Her eyebrows shoot upward for a moment, and she hops like an excited child before grabbing the corner of the white sheet in front of her and peeling it off the body in one smooth motion. A young man with chiseled features and a prominent nose. His brown hair is all messed up on one side and matted with blood. I try to examine the cuts and bruises on the face but my eyes refuse. It’s not the blood so much as the green sheen of rotting skin.

“What’s the wire on the body?” I ask, turning away, and Skrulle gives me the courtesy of pretending not to notice the tightness of my voice. “Doesn’t look much like an accident to me.”

“Inspector Bakkoush rang this morning,” she says. “Not supposed to reveal confidential police information, you know.” She snatches the lit cigarette from between my lips and takes a deep drag before stubbing it out on the side of the garbage bin. “I don’t like people smoking in here,” she says as she exhales.

“Sorry, doc,” I lean against the wall behind her. Maybe I can catch a glimpse of her notepad from here. “Just tryin’ to earn a living, you know how it is.”

“Never apologize, Isak,” she says with sudden tenderness. “It’s a sign of weakness.”

I’m glad her back is turned to me.

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head,” she says in her curt doctor voice before turning around and explaining: “Cause of death.”

“I thought he washed up ashore?”

“Post-mortem,” she continues. “Wasn’t in the water more than an hour. Wouldn’t look half this handsome if it were longer.”

Sometimes I wonder about her.

“You know, a good looking stiff doesn’t really razz my berries these days.”

She flashes me that smile that says she knows something I don’t.

“We're all in the gutter, Isak. At least some of us are looking at the stars.”

“What?”

“This is official police business, Valtersen,” Yousef Acar makes himself known from the doorway. “Keep your paws off it.”

Acar is a bit of a sap, if you ask me, but he’s decent as far as the law goes. Tries to look tougher than he is. Truth is, he’s too nice of a fellow to make a good cop.

“Officer Acar,” I turn to him. “Is Inspector Bakkoush having you run her errands again?”

He’s a handsome guy, dark skin, warm eyes, strong eyebrows. But he belongs in a school somewhere, teaching children, not out on the streets. The tough guy act doesn't really cut it. I wonder if he serves under Bakkoush in other ways.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re a real joker. Now get lost before I arrest you for interfering with police business.”

“Oh? You’re gonna sic the man on me?” I chuckle, “No, no, not man, _woman_. Your lady boss.”

I catch sight of Skrulle to my right, her arms folded, lips pursed and eyebrows raised at me. _Ah shit._

“I’m just toying around,” I grin in her direction. I have to stay on her good side if I ever want to solve another case. “I already know women are the superior gender. Send Inspector B my regards,” I turn back to Acar. “We all know she’s twice the man either of us will ever be.”

I take my Luckies out of my pocket but quickly return them at the look on Skrulle’s face. I need to take charge of this situation. At this rate I’m leaving empty-handed.

“So we’re looking for someone strong, then?” I ask. “Must be bigger than Magnusson to overpower him.”

Acar nods in agreement and approaches the body. His nose scrunches up at the smell, but he doesn’t shirk back. He’s not yellow like me.

“Actually, boys,” Dr. Skrulle pipes up, “I spoke with Inspector Bakkoush, and she thinks it’s someone smaller. Someone he trusted.”

“How does she figure that?” Acar asks. She keeps him in the dark just like the rest of us.

“We found residue of barbiturates in his system,” she says. “He was probably already out when he suffered the head trauma. It took at least two blows to do him in. It’s gonna be a hell of a job for the mortician to cover up that side of his face at the funeral. They want it open casket,” she barks with laughter.

Acar and I share a look before he seems to come to his senses.

“Alright, Valtersen,” he grabs my arm, leading me to the door, “out.”

“I’ll see you at the funeral, then,” I wink at him as I head out. It works.

“Valtersen!” he calls out after me. “Isak.”

I stop and turn to face him.

“Ice the funeral, the family doesn't want any trouble. You can go to the wake instead, alright? It’s at Magnusson Sr.'s estate right after. Just…” he shakes his head, “don’t show up drunk, alright? And maybe clean yourself up, pick up some new threads, if you wanna pass for a class act. Even news-hawks look better than you.”

When I step out of the hospital, the sun is blaring, and the sight of the lively city makes me sick again. I duck into the first dive I come across. I should probably refuel too.

   
_Always though it's crowded, you still can find some room_

_Those broken-hearted lovers cry away there in their gloom_

_I get so lonely baby, I get so lonely,_

_I get so lonely_

_I could die_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~here's a sneak-peak of Isak's investigation board as it is about to develop:~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> __  
>   
> 


	4. The Plot (Even POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big apologies for the delay! Will try to update more regularly from now on. Thanks for reading and commenting!

Things get easier with Sonja for a while after she buys me a townhouse right by the beach. It’s such an extravagant present that even I’m not dumb enough to accept it without suspicion, but she is so convincing when she tells me about it excitedly.

“It is _such_ a beautiful property, I just couldn’t resist it. I _couldn’t_! Don’t look at me like that, just wait until you see it,” she chirps away in excitement, and for a moment I remember why I fell for her in the first place. “And before you say anything - Noora _assures_ me it’s a great investment, and she knows all about that…” she waves her hand, and her whole body flutters for a moment, “you know… investment… bond… stuff, and _she_ said it is a prime spot, and we can sell it for a _huuuge_ profit later."

She looks at me with a big smile plastered on her face. It's kinda nice, I haven't seen her this excited in ages.

" _And!_  The best part is, it will trim your travel time to the studio by half! Think of everything you could do with that time! You could, you could play music, or scribble on your notepad, or.. all sorts of things. And you know once they start building the new road, it will only get worse.”

She pauses for breath and realizes that she’s laying it on too thick.

“Of course, we’d still spend the weekends together,” she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And you know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

She smiles coyly at me, and for a split second it makes me want to slap her - we haven’t spent a night together in over a year. But maybe I’m wrong, and she wants to give us another try. Maybe I’m wrong and she hasn’t been cheating on me for months. Maybe I’m wrong, and this is an apology, not a ruse.

“Okay,” I nod.

“Yes?” she grins at me, eyes wide. “You like your present?”

“It’s very thoughtful,” I say. “I love it. Thank you.”

I don’t remember when all our conversations became performances, but now it always feels as though someone else is watching. As though we are a couple of actors on a giant silver screen, trying our hardest to convince total strangers that we are in love, knowing full well that this story has a tragic ending.

But, like I said, it does make things easier for a while. We stay apart during the week, we attend parties on the weekends. It's easier to be cordial with one another. I work a lot, but at least I can relax when I get home. It works. For a while. 

 

  
I’m hastily buttering toast in the townhouse kitchen when I hear the morning paper hit the front door with a loud thud - the paperboy has quite an arm, he could easily play football, but he’s almost always late. Stuffing the entire piece of toast in my mouth at once, I open the door and pick the paper off the ground. With a painful gulp, I force the half-chewed toast down my throat as I read the headline. William Magnusson Sr, Sonja’s father, is dead.

How did the paper get the news before the family was informed? _I can’t let Sonja find out this way!_   I practically jump in my blue Chevrolet Corvette and speed against the traffic, but the closer I get to our house - well, it’s more Sonja’s house now, really - the more anxious I feel. It’s not that I’m worried about her reaction - Sonja and her father had a civil relationship at best, and I can handle tears should they happen. But if Magnusson died yesterday morning, how could she possibly not know?

I park outside the gate to the house, I don’t even know why. I guess I just don’t want her to see me before I see her. Luckily, she never liked having helpers around the house, so I can use my key without drawing attention to myself. I feel like a thief in my own home. But maybe I’m just paranoid, and she didn’t call me because she was too upset. _Somebody should have called me_ …

Sonja’s muffled voice rings from the living room as I walk through the foyer. I stop and listen once the words become distinguishable.

“No,” she says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

There is a long pause, and I lean slightly around the corner of the door frame but can only make out a sliver of Sonja’s shoulder and arm, her hand gripping the telephone on the side table, as though it might disappear if she lets go. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in there.

“Look,” Sonja speaks again, but this time she sounds almost panicked. “Daddy is gone, Even will be out of the picture, and that’s... that's as much as I can handle right now. Let’s just stick to the plan, okay? _Please_?”

I wait with my back pressed to the wall. Who can she be talking to? What plan?

“Okay,” she finally says again, and she sounds much calmer. "Promise?"

A small laugh, barely more than a hiccup.

“Okay, but... What if I use a pay phone? The-”

She lets out a loud sigh at the response, and her hand travels up the telephone cord, fingers curling around it softly.

“Yes, I understand. Yes. I know,” she giggles suddenly, like a girl, at whatever it is she claims to know. Another pause and then, “I love you, too.”

The words sting as she speaks them, but not nearly as much as I would have expected. It’s mostly my pride that’s hurt. She hangs up the phone and lingers by it, leaving me time to sneak back out unnoticed. As I drive back toward the coast, ignoring the chill of the autumn wind lashing at my face, I make a mental list of all the people I could turn to for advice. It is sobering to realize that there are none.

Well, maybe one person… a person I haven’t talked to in years. A person I knew long before Sonja.

 

It takes a few days to get a hold of Mikael, but when I do he accepts my invitation immediately. We meet at a hash house in a less reputable part of town, and it feels almost unreal to see him enter. He bounces in like a stray cat on a prowl, and I can’t help grinning at the sight of him.

He’s already scarfed down his food before our trip down memory lane takes us to my present predicament.

“So what the hell’s taken you so long?” Mikael asks, brushing gentle fingers through his dark hair, hair that’s even longer now than it was back in the day. It’s swept back all the way, but his fingers slip easily through to the soft ringlets that peek out from the back. Some things never change. I look at him and see the same old Mikael, if a bit worse for the wear.

The same old Mikael that I abandoned, left to fend for himself while I lived it up. 

_No_.

He told me to piss off and I never heard from him again. It was his choice. 

“Even?” a boyish smile plays on Mikael’s lips when I snap back to reality. “Still losing your way in that fantastical mind of yours, hm?”

I breathe out a chuckle and watch him finish his Coca Cola with a loud gurgle from his straw.

“I was just trying to figure out how you make your hair stay in place like that without greasing it down.”

He leans back and drapes one arm across the top of the booth we’re sitting in, but he doesn’t reply. He winks at the young waitress when she brings our bill, and it occurs to me that we must be a strange sight, Mikael in his black leather jacket and white tee, and me in my pastel blue fucking suit.

“Let’s get out of here and tip a few,” he says, slipping out of the booth without waiting for my reply. I throw a fin on the table and follow.


	5. The Wake (Isak POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm terrible at updating in a timely fashion - life has a way of getting in the way. If you're still reading, here's a much belated but also longer than anticipated chapter. As always, I appreciate your feedback!

_Never trust your client._

It’s the most important rule of detective work and one you better learn fast. Innocent men only come to me for help if they’re dirt poor, and even they’re probably guilty of _something_. Næsheim is filthy rich and too damn silver-tongued to be trusted.

Everything I’ve learned since we first met confirms my suspicions. The fellow has charmed his way into an heiress’s bed and her wealth. Never worked a day in his life. Must be tough for him, to come across a problem he can’t seduce away.

I’m not too worried about him. The chap likes to hear himself talk, and I can work that to my advantage. Like the bit about finding my name in a telephone book. I knew he was lying before he even sat down. No respectable private eye makes his business known in the damn telephone book.

Still, I have a feeling it’s not murder he’s guilty of, and I can usually trust my gut. With the Magnusson Jr case unfolding at the same time, I’d be suprised if there isn’t something bigger at play here. If Jr was killed by someone smaller, someone he trusted, then our missing heiress likely had something to do with it. Sonja Bech Næsheim - victim or suspect? It’s as good a starting point as any.

I down only one glass of whiskey before heading to the wake. Officer Acar would be pleased. I catch a cab around the corner from the office and watch open highways replace the narrow city streets. The closer we get to my destination, the bigger everything seems, the cleaner the road, the shinier the buildings. When the car finally stops and I step outside, I think even the air is better here. Instead of the smoke and lingering smell of sewage that permeates every inch of downtown, I’m hit with the scent of freshly cut grass. I pay the cabbie and loosen the stiff tie around my neck as he drives off.

The Magnusson estate is every bit as extravagant as I expected. The sprawling mansion sits atop at least an acre of perfectly manicured lawn. White columns support its high ceilings, and bright spotlights illuminate the landing where a man in a tuxedo guards the front door. Judging by the ginger hair, that must be Eskild Tryggvason, the driver.

As I walk up the front steps, I covertly pull out a folded bank note tucked inside Næsheim’s silver money clip. Tryggvason shakes my hand and accepts the money with such ease that even I’m impressed. He nods and gives me a familiar smile, as though greeting an old friend.

“Please accept my condolences, Mr. Dahl,” he says. “I understand you and William were quite close.”

I nod and follow his outstretched arm into the expansive hall. The walls are a deep burgundy and decorated with flowing shapes of French gilt. An enormous crystal chandelier dangles lightly from the vaulted ceiling, and I am so mesmerized by all the sights that I don’t even notice the butler until he speaks.

“Your coat, sir?” His head is cocked slightly, bushy eyebrows raised, like he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes at me. I like him.

“Yes, hello,” I use my momentary disorientation to my advantage. I struggle to get out of my coat, making sure to catch my sleeve on every button. A few panicked looks in his direction as I stutter incomprehensibly, and I know I’ve gained his sympathy. Bumbling idiots are rarely viewed with suspicion - I learned that the hard way.

“E-excuse me, um,” I clear my throat nervously. “Mr…?”

He chuckles.

“Jonas,” he replies. “I am, uh… _was_ Mr. Magnusson’s butler, sir.”

“Jonas,” I nod. “I’m Julian Dahl, an old friend of William’s. I haven’t seen him since our college days, and this is just… well, it’s a shock. His family must be devastated.”

His lips stretch into a smile for no more than a second before he catches himself.

“Um, yes, yes, quite devastated, sir.”

“I uh… well, I hardly know any of them myself,” I continue, “but, I just… I couldn’t leave before giving the old boy a good sendoff!”

He sighs and chuckles, and then pulls me aside, though no one else is in the hall with us.

“Listen, man, I don’t know when you knew William or what he was like then,” he explains in a hurried whisper, “but you should be careful about his friends and family.”

_Jackpot_. I can always rely on the kindness of the help. And their certain disdain for their employers.

“The chatty blonde is his widow, Vilde,” Jonas begins, “but everybody knows he was trying to divorce her.”

“Successfully?” I ask.

“Unclear, but don’t tell her anything you don’t want everyone to know.” He takes a quick glance around the hall before continuing. “William’s sister, Sonja, hated him so much, she didn’t even turn up for the funeral. Mr. Magnusson, Senior I mean, died just a few weeks ago, and there has been some tension about the inheritance, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh,” I furrow my brow, but really, I could hug this man. He shaved off at least an hour from tonight’s workload. “Anything else I need to know before I go in?”

“Well,” he hesitates before continuing, “there’s the Noora thing, I guess, but she’s not here, so you shouldn’t have to worry about that.” He shakes his head at my inquiring glance. “It’s not important,” he says. “There may have been an a—”

“Jonas!” -the sound echoes through the hall and cuts into our conversation. It’s followed by a giggled “oops” from the doorway. The owner of the offending voice is a dark-haired woman leaning against the frame of the door, an empty bottle of wine dangling from her raised hand and her lips stretched in a grimace of embarrassment.

“What kind of wine is this?” She asks in an impressively loud whisper. “Where is the good stuff! William is _dead_! He would want us to celebrate his life! I demand the good hooch!”

She is smiling coyly, and her hair looks like it might have been pinned up earlier in the day.

“E-rmmm… Mrs. Schistad,” Jonas jumps away from me with an apologetic glance. “Why don’t you help me select the next bottle?” He asks, guiding her gently towards a stairway that leads to a lower level. I watch her lean on the railing to take off her shoes, giggling. If I had a penny for every time a dame interfered with my business…

Well, that was good while it lasted. I fix my tie and brace myself for the small crowd in the next room.

I went to a few funerals and wakes after the war. There’s a palpable sense of grief at those gatherings. A kind of human vulnerability that frankly disgusts me. But when I walk into the drawing room, I feel nothing. Though the decor has all the markings of a somber event, and most of the guests are wearing black and speaking in hushed whispers, the air in the room is not heavy or loaded with painful memories. The slick dinner jackets and low-bosomed black gowns are as much of a show as any quiet expression of loss.

I can feel several pairs of eyes turn towards me as I make my way around the room. One of them belongs to a wide-eyed blonde with sharp eyebrows. Her face and lips are pale, and she exudes an air of innocence that makes her look out of place in this room full of vultures. I recognize her from the photographs my assistant collected. Vilde Magnusson, the grieving widow.

She is dressed appropriately in a calf-length black dress and stands up to greet me as I walk toward her.

“Mrs. Magnusson?” I ask in a low tone. She looks down and extends her gloved hand to me silently. “Please accept my condolences,” I continue.

“Thank you,” she says, eyes slightly narrowed, “Mr…?”

“I am so sorry, where are my manners,” I say quickly. “Julian Dahl. I was a friend of Williams at college.”

“Oh,” she smiles softly. “I didn’t know he had any friends.”

“Now, Vilde,” the handsome man previously seated next to her cuts in. “Let’s not speak ill of the dead.”

His dirty blond hair is slicked all the way back, and his eyes are piercing. He grins at me apologetically.

“You know, they say that anger is the most common response after losing a loved one,” he says with an air of smug condescension, joining us.

“I’m so sorry,” Vilde chimes in, placing her hand on her bosom. She smiles ever so slightly, her lips barely parted, and looks up at me through long eyelashes. “It’s just… he’s left two children behind, and… who will take care of us now?”

“Well,” I reply, “You can hardly blame him for dying. I doubt he meant for it to happen.”

She shrugs and takes a sip of wine from her glass. It stains her lips blood red for a moment.

“Perhaps you can ask Eva why he was on the boat that night in the first place, then,” she says cheerfully.

“Vilde!” Her handsome companion hisses in an indignant whisper.

“She’s your wife, Christoffer,” Vilde retorts, and her tone of voice is as sweet as honey. “Where is she now, by the way? Have you lost track again?”

I suddenly understand why the butler felt the need to warn me.

Christoffer sighs and turns to me.

“Mr. Dahl, you said?” he asks and I nod. “How did you say you know William?” He places his hand on my shoulder and guides me gently but firmly away from Vilde.

“College,” I say simply.

I do my best to talk to everyone, gathering bits and pieces of information along the way. Unsurprisingly, William Jr, appears to have been a bit of a womanizer. Mrs. Magnusson’s barbs don’t seem as sharp once I realize how many of the guests he’s plowed. One of them insists that his wife’s infidelity is what pushed him into her bed. I should make a note of tonight if I ever need a reminder why alone is better. People are the worst animal.

When I finally step outside again, it’s dark, and the cool air is refreshing. All in all it’s been a productive evening, but I can’t wait to get back to my office. I’ll take my hard rock bottom over their cushy personal hell.

“The cab will be a minute, sir,” Eskild pops his head out through the front door. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait inside?”

“Thank you, Eskild, I’m alright.”

“I hope you found what you were looking for,” he smiles, before going back inside and closing the door behind him.

I’m not sure if I have. My list of suspects has expanded to pretty much anyone who’s ever met Jr. At least motive won’t be a problem. But there hasn’t been a single mention of Sonja or her conspicuous absence. It seems nobody finds it unusual that she didn’t show. I’ll have to come back to talk to the butler when he’s not busy… but under what pretense?

I stroll down the path toward the gates of the estate —might as well meet the cab there—  when I hear a familiar giggle. Veering slightly off path, I push aside a few branches of a nearby shrub to reveal Mrs. Schistad and none other than Jonas the butler, going at it.

“Jesus!” she yelps, pushing Jonas away, and begins adjusting the hem of her dress.

“I -I’m so sorry!” I stutter while Jonas pulls his trousers back up. “I didn’t… mean to… My apologies.”

I step back and let the shrub obscure my view. This may not be the most gentlemanly way to get information, but I’m in no hurry. A moment later, they come out from behind the bush, faces flushed, and panic in both their eyes.

“Mr. Dahl,” Jonas starts, but Mrs. Schistad interrupts.

“What do you want?” she asks bluntly.

“Oh, no, I was uhm, just… walking to the gate,” I frown at my own incompetence.

“No,” she sighs, “what do you want to keep your mouth shut? Money? I can get you money.”

Wow. I glance over at Jonas and he seems as taken aback as I am. The rumbling of a distant car engine snaps me back to my senses. I don’t have much time.

“Information,” I say. “Who stands to gain from William’s death? And who had access to his boat?”

She scoffs, “I don’t know! I don’t care. Did you see how they all are? Everyone wants everyone dead.”

“Eva…” Jonas nudges her with his elbow. Of course, he has more to lose here than she does.

“Ask Noora,” she says after a pause. “Noora Sartre.”

The name has been mentioned a few times tonight, but I haven’t gathered much about her.

“Noora?” Jonas frowns incredulously.

“Mr. Magnusson’s assistant?” I ask. What would she have to do with any of this?

“She knows all their family business,” Eva explains, picking a few stray leaves off her dress. “She was officially Magnusson’s assistant, but really, Sonja hired her to take care of him after his first stroke. Noora was more like his nurse, except he didn’t know it. Or pretended not to. I guess he was too proud to be old or whatever.”

A door slams in the distance, and I look over at the car idling by the gate. The driver has stepped outside and is looking over at us.

“I need to know you won’t tell anyone about what you saw,” Eva says.

“I need to know more about Noora,” I reply.

She is clearly annoyed, but Jonas is tugging at her elbow like a puppy.

“Look, she got along with _everyone_. Including both Sonja and William, which is impossible. Hell, even I like her! For a while there, William was worried the old man might write her into his will. Though I think he would have been less upset if that were the case. But instead Sonja got more than half of everything, and he was livid.”

“Where do I find her?” This is my closest connection to Sonja so far.

“She still lives here,” Jonas says. “We’ve all been asked to stay while financial matters get sorted out. But she doesn’t really have much to do, Mr. Magnusson being dead and all, so she hasn’t been around much… Oh, maybe Eskild might know! You could ask him?”

I only grunt by way of reply before rushing off to catch my cab. If nothing else, this is shaping up to be an interesting case. It beats taking pictures of cheating spouses for some spare change. My head is swarming with thoughts when I get back to my office. I need a drink and to write it all down before I forget.

I stop dead in my tracks when I reach my front door. The marbled glass bearing my worn out name is illuminated from the inside. Wishing I hadn’t left my gun behind, I slowly push on the handle, and the door creaks open. A woman in long trousers and a fitted jacket is leafing through some papers on my desk. A black scarf covers her hair all the way behind her ears. She turns to look at me with a small, one-sided smile on her face.

“Isak,” she nods. “You really should clean this place up a bit. This is no way to live.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s considered breaking and entering if you’re here without a warrant, Inspector Bakkoush,” I say as I close the door behind me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”


	6. M is for Murder (Even POV)

I have dreams where I’m drowning.

My slimy, wet clothes cling to my bristling skin, my shoes might as well be made of lead, and I struggle in vain to propel my body upwards, toward a dim and hazy light in the distance. Above me, familiar faces stand around a swimming pool, drinking champagne and laughing together, unaware that I’m in the water. Below me is blinding darkness, a deep, unending abyss that tugs at me like a magnet, its growl replacing the soft tones of a spring party. Sometimes I almost reach the top before the cold shadow grabs my ankles and pulls me downward. That’s usually when the panic sets in. I can’t hold my breath any longer. I try to scream, but I make no sound. Instead, the icy water fills my mouth, my nose, my throat, and my aching lungs.

With a loud gasp, I wake up covered in sweat, my heart pounding, my lungs screaming for air against the imagined force that drowns them.

I steady my breath as the dream gradually slips from my mind. I glance over at Sonja’s side of the bed, and a vice tightens around my chest again. I expected that she would serve me divorce papers when I arrived on Friday. Perhaps she would offer me some kind of consolation prize - I could keep my job or the house, something. But at this point, I would gladly walk away with nothing.

 

When I got here, the house was empty, but it wasn’t unusual for Sonja to go to a party without me and come back late. When she still hadn’t arrived in the morning, I thought she must have decided to dispense entirely with the pretense and spend the night in somebody else’s bed. I tried to stay calm as the day went on. By evening, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I called Jonas to check if he had seen her. He hadn’t.

“Oh it’s nothing,” I quickly explained. “She forgot her cigarette case, and I thought she might have stopped by there on her way to the city.”

 

_She’ll turn up, and you’ll feel real stupid about this_ , I thought. I flipped through a magazine for a few minutes but the words and images just blurred together into nothing. I turned on the telly and turned it off almost immediately. I even tried to draw. But the harder I worked on not thinking about it, the clearer last week’s drunken conversation with Mikael would come back to me.

  
“Mr. Lonely-hearts,” he called me. “I never seen someone so dizzy with a dame as you were when you met Sonja… What happened?”

I griped and whined about how unfair it all was. And the more I complained, the more guilty I felt knowing that Mikael never even had all the things I was now so afraid to lose.

“She’s got you right behind the eight-ball,” Mikael sympathized anyway. He laughed suddenly, and lowered his voice: “Want me to knock her off?”

I almost choked on my drink from laughter.

“What, you don’t think I could do it? I could do it.” He frowned at me, feigning indignation. “Listen, listen to me, Even.” Mikael’s eyes were slightly glazed over. He was as drunk as I was.

“Listen,” he said again. “You say the word, and it’s done. I’ll get on the horn tomorrow.”

I laughed, though I wasn’t entirely sure that he was joking. But at that moment I didn’t care. Everything would be so much easier if only Sonja was gone. Or so I thought.

 

I can’t wait any longer. I have to do _something_. None of Sonja’s belongings seem to be missing. Even her car is still in the garage. The house is clean and neat - no different, really, than when I had overheard her talking on the phone. Who could she have been talking to? Clearly she was involved in something I wasn’t aware of, so her absence might not have anything to do with me. Or Mikael. Whom I called, again and again, and received no reply.

I grab my coat and head to my car though I’m not sure where I’m going. Away from _here_. As I reach in my pocket for the keys, my fingers clasp around a small piece of stiff paper. A business card. Mikael had given it to me that night, and it completely slipped my mind until this moment.

I stare at the wrinkled card in my hand:

ISAK VALTERSEN, Private Investigator

“If she’s as flighty as you say,” Mikael had said, “you can find dirt on her. At least learn how she plans to get rid of you before she does it.”

I scoffed at the idea.

“That’s not who I am, Miki. I’m not gonna go to some private dick to spy on my wife.”

“Just take it.” Mikael pushed the card in my pocket. “Valtersen is a boozehound, but he’s not as dumb as he seems. He’ll do the job right, and no one will ever know. Throw some cash his way, and he’ll be your lapdog.“

I had no intention of doing any of that, but I thanked him nonetheless.

 

Yet suddenly, days later, this private eye is my only friend in the world.

I jump in my car and head toward the address on the card immediately. I'm not sure where my day went, but the sun is already setting as I head to the city. I will have to park a ways out and take the trolley - imagine parking a Corvette in that neighborhood. I chuckle at the idea in spite of myself. How did I ever end up here? I always wanted my life to be a movie, but I never saw myself as the rich asshole driving a fancy car to get a detective to spy on his wife. Whom I might have had killed, no less. 

Well, since I'm here, I might as well embrace my role. I walk up the stairs of the shabby building and try not to touch anything. The stench of stale urine is not exactly reassuring. Neither is the darkness behind the glass of the private eye's front door. Don't these guys work at night? I almost turn away when I hear a dull thump behind the door. He's in there. I brace myself and start to knock, but the door swings open at the slightest push. 

_Alright, Mr. Valtersen, let’s see if you’ll be a good little lapdog._


	7. Sana (Isak POV)

Bakkoush entered the scene right around the same time I did, some eight or ten years ago. I dismissed her like the Johns did at first - a dame trying to do a man’s job. Still, her low standing with the buttons made her useful to me. She needed information and access that was denied to her. I needed the law off my back. It was a good setup.

It took me a few years to catch on to the game she was playing. While I teetered on the lip of my rocks glass, Bakkoush solved case after case, leaving humiliated coppers in her wake. Before I knew it, she was no longer “doll” to the fellas at the clubhouse. It was worth it just to watch them grudgingly call her Officer, then Deputy, Captain, and now - Inspector Bakkoush. She rose to the top, I hit rock bottom.

When I walk in on her snooping around my office, it’s a small relief that helps me wash down the slime of Magnusson Jr’s wake.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask, more snidely than I really mean.

“Perhaps you could hire a maid with the money you make off the Magnusson case,” she says as I walk around her and sit at my desk, facing her.

She continues rifling through my notes unaffected. I pull my bottle of whiskey from the desk drawer and pour some into the empty glass in front of me.

“Whiskey?” I tip the bottle toward her, knowing full well she doesn’t drink.

She rolls her eyes with that half-smile of hers as she sits down across from me, in the chair reserved for my lowlife clients. She has this look in her eye that I can never quite figure. Knowing, unknowable, sphinx-like.

“Let’s cut the crap,” she starts. “Who put you on the Magnusson case?”

I take my time with a small sip of whiskey.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I grin.

Her full lips purse in frustration, she sighs, blinks very slowly before looking up at me, one eyebrow raised. She has a very teacherly air about her. Makes me feel like I forgot to do my homework.

“C’mon, you know I can’t tell you that!” I laugh. “I’d never get a client again if I sang to every cop that breaks into my office.”

“I’m not every cop,” she seems genuinely offended.

“I’m not on the Magnusson case,” I sigh, adding “Honest!” after she shoots me another one of those looks.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s unrelated. Truth be told, I’m not sure of much.” I quickly scan the papers strewn across my desk and can’t help chuckling. “You probably already know more than I do judging by your work here.”

Bakkoush has the decency to look embarrassed for a moment.

“Why are you so hard up for help anyway, _Inspector_?” I ask.

“New Chief,” she sighs after a moment. “He’s throttling my investigation. If it were up to him, I’d sit in my new office and wait for the boys to tell me who to arrest.”

She looks tired. She's had to deal with this shit for years. Can't imagine it gets any easier over time.

“I’m fairly certain that my client did not murder Magnusson,” I tell her by way of compromise. “His interests lie elsewhere.” Possibly with the person who _did_ kill Magnusson...

“But if you have a lead, I’d be happy to pursue it and report back,” I add.

“So I can wait for _you_ to tell me who to arrest?” she asks sardonically.

“Hah, well- that’s not really my business now, is it? Why don’t you send Acar to investigate? He always seems happy to do your bidding.”

Bakkoush sits up and composes her self momentarily but doesn't respond.

“My primary suspect,” she says, all business now, “is Magnusson’s sister, Sonja Bech Næsheim.” She puts her index finger on a news scrap in front of her and slowly slides it over until I can see it clearly. Sonja’s smiling face looks up at me in black and white. “She’s hard to find.”

“Yes,” I nod. “I haven’t had much luck myself.”

“If my theory is correct,” Sana continues, “she was on deck of Magnusson’s sailboat the night he died.” She pulls a folded envelope from her purse and drops it onto the scattered pile between us. “Since the Chief has decided that the crime scene was elsewhere, the boat is currently of no interest to me,” she pauses, standing up. “Or to any other member of the police force, as far as I know. It’s a shame, really. Such a nice boat.”

She looks at me knowingly for a moment and then walks briskly to the door before turning to face me again.

“If only we knew where the murder took place, we could find good evidence. The department has all these resources going to waste. Did you know you can dust for fingerprints with a simple kit? And it only takes a few days to get blood samples analyzed at the lab.” With a sigh, she turns the door handle. “It’s too bad someone like you doesn’t have access to these things.”

She shakes her head once more, then turns off the light, closing the door behind her.

In the dark and quiet, I can finally think clearly. I told Bakkoush that my client had nothing to do with her case, but…If Næsheim _did_ kill Sonja, then who’s to say he didn’t kill Magnusson Jr too? He doesn't lack for motive - it would make him a beneficiary of Sr’s sizable will. Him and Jr’s widow, Vilde, I suppose. Could they be in cahoots? Maybe he killed Jr and she killed Sonja. A nice trade.

I have to entertain all possibilities, though my gut still doesn’t see Næsheim being guilty of murder. I pull out a wrinkled note from my pocket, pull off some stray pieces of lint, and dial the number scribbled on it on my telephone.

“Hello?”

“Næsheim?” I say into the receiver. “This is Valtersen.”

“Oh, yes, uh... hello,” he sounds flustered. “Wh- uh, d-do you have a new lead?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “Not yet, anyway. But if all goes according to plan, I’ll have more information tomorrow. I prefer talking business in person, anyway. Can you meet me at the diner by the shipyard, say around 8 or 9?”

“I can do one better,” Næsheim says. “Give me a ring when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up. We don’t have to hang around that shithole. I’ll buy you some real food.”

It’s been too long of a day to deal with this.

“I’d rather keep the cash,” I say, and he laughs.

“There’s a pay phone behind the diner. I’ll pick you up when you’re ready.”

And with a soft click, he’s gone. I put the receiver back onto its cradle above the large numbered dial of the telephone. I need another drink.

Before I can get the bottle open again, a sharp ring makes me almost drop it.

“Holy shit,” I mumble before picking up the receiver again.

“Valtersen,” I grunt into it, while fishing through my jacket pockets for my cigarettes.

“Boss, it’s Berg,” a familiar voice answers on the other end. Finally, someone I _want_ to talk to. “I’ve been tailing pretty-boy like you said. I think you’ll want to see this for yourself.”

She never wastes time on pleasantries. It’s one of the things I like about Christina Berg.

“What have you got?”

“I don’t really know, boss,” she says. “You’re the brains of the operation.”

This is another thing I like about her. She’s only interested in the grunt work. She can spend days tailing a shuck, but she doesn’t give a damn about who or why.

“Alright, come by in the morning. And bring some coffee, will ya?”


End file.
